The Good Thief's Guide to Paris (12 page)

“I am sorry about my jacket photograph. All my lies.”

“So you’ve said.”

“But you’re not ready to forgive me just yet?”

Victoria moved her shoulder, freeing herself from my grip. “I’m pissed off, Charlie. That can’t come as a surprise.”

“I guess. But something you should remember is that I barely knew you when I sent that picture in. There was a lot I hadn’t told you back then.”

She nodded, unconvinced.

“Hey,” I went on, “if it helps, you know more about me right now than anyone else in the whole wide world.”

She gave me a half-smile. “Like how bad you are at a Scottish accent?”

I smirked, shook my head.

“That accent was a thing of beauty.”

“You sounded like an Irishman with a speech impediment.”

“I cannae believe it.”

I grinned and held her eyes, relieved that there was a chance things might just return to normal between us.

“Go on. Scram,” she said. “Before I get mad all over again.”

“I will make it up to you, Vic.”

“Oh, I know. Believe me.”

FIFTEEN

The taxi driver I found shook his head and gave me a dubious look when I first showed him the address for B. Chevrier that I’d noted down from the telephone directory. Once we finally arrived at our destination, I could understand why. We were on the north-east of the city, overlooking a cluster of high-rise apartments in the very heart of the banlieue of Clichy-sous-Bois, the notorious Parisian district. The area was a ghetto in the vilest sense, a sore that had been left to fester.

My driver refused to take me into the banlieue itself. The best he was willing to do was to drop me on the hard shoulder of the route nationale situated nearest to the western boundary of the slum. He pointed me in the rough direction I needed, then took my money and drove away, leaving me in no doubt as to how foolish he thought I was being.

It was hard to disagree. Standing on the scrubbed asphalt and turning my gaze on the crumbling buildings looming ahead of me, I knew I would feel threatened if I happened to be there on a sunny afternoon, let alone in darkness at one in the morning. I could smell diesel fumes and scorched tyre rubber all around me, and my feet were mired in grit and tar. I checked over my shoulder, towards the headlamps of the moving cars on the main road, wondering if I should cut my losses and try something else. There was no guarantee the telephone listing I had was correct. It could relate to another B. Chevrier altogether but even if it was the right Bruno, he might have moved out since the listing was made. Looking at the buildings ahead of me, I felt pretty certain most of the residents wouldn’t even have a telephone. For a moment, I thought about finding a phone box and calling the number, just to see if I could recognise his voice. But where would I find a working pay phone in the banlieue? And even if I did, wouldn’t it cost me the element of surprise?

Reluctantly, I dismissed the idea, meanwhile stepping over the crash barrier at the side of the road and making my way down the steep, grassy verge. There were very few street lamps and fewer still that worked, so it was difficult to find my footing. I thought about using my pocket torch but I dismissed the idea right away. The torch beam would mark me out as an outsider, and if there was one place I didn’t want to draw anyone’s attention, it was here.

It took me almost an hour to locate the high-rise I was looking for. I guess that shouldn’t have surprised me because the streets I found myself walking through formed a sinister maze, full of darkened alleys and corners, pitch-black underpasses and boarded up buildings. There were barely any street signs and the area didn’t register on the maps of the city I had in my possession. So my only option had been to circle the zone the taxi driver had indicated, with my hands in my pockets and my shoulders hunched, trying not to jump whenever I heard footsteps or the high-pitched buzz of a nearby moped engine, always avoiding eye contact with the groups of youths I passed.

The high-rise had no security measures to delay me. There wasn’t even a door on the front entrance. The hinges and the frame were there, but the door had been ripped free and discarded on the ground. I entered the foyer, broken glass crunching beneath my feet. There was an elevator, smelling bluntly of urine, but the switch-plate had been removed from the wall so that all that was left was a tangle of bare wires. The apartment I was after was number 71 and as I began to climb the stairs, I realised with a creeping dread that it was probably on the seventh floor of the building. I didn’t relish the prospect of spending any longer on the stairs than I needed to. The further I climbed, the further I had to come down if I found any trouble.

When I finally reached the seventh floor, I sneaked through the wire-glass door at the edge of the stairwell and into the hallway beyond. The hallway was completely dark and when I tried the light switch on the wall nothing happened. I withdrew my torch and cast the thin beam ahead of me. The corridor was longer than I had anticipated and the light from my torch didn’t penetrate far. Stepping forwards, I felt like a lure on the end of a fishing hook, woefully unaware of the dangers that lurked up ahead.

So far as I could tell, the hallway was empty. I say so far as I could tell because in the end I didn’t walk down it for too long. The second door I passed was numbered 72 and the third was 73. I backed up to the first door in the corridor and found that the numbers had fallen off. Even so, it was reasonable to assume I was finally where I needed to be.

There was a combination lock in the middle of the door, so named because it had a spring lock that would engage automatically when the door was closed as well as a deadbolt that could be turned for added security. I cast my torch beam down along the gap beside the doorframe and saw that the deadbolt was engaged. I wasn’t overly concerned. On closer inspection, the locking mechanism looked as if it had been refitted quite recently and whoever carried out the job hadn’t cared about doing it right. For once, I thought I might not even need my picks – it looked as if I’d be able simply to prise the lock out from its housing with one of my screwdrivers, leaving the bolt to be manipulated sideways.

Before I tackled the lock, I pulled my gloves from my trouser pocket and went through the familiar ritual of easing them onto my hands, wincing as the sheer plastic snagged my knuckles. Those same knuckles would be pleased to hear that, for once, I wasn’t about to knock on the door. Truth was, this was perhaps the first time in my career as a burglar when I actually wanted the place I was breaking into to be occupied. Or rather, I thought I did, assuming I had the right apartment and the right man.

With those concerns at the forefront of my mind, I pressed my ear against the door to see if I could hear any movement. Yet again the tactic failed to tell me anything useful. I was beginning to think the old ear-against-the-door routine was something I should drop from my repertoire – like a hackneyed magic trick that had lost its lustre. But I’ve always had faith in an orderly approach and I’m kind of superstitious about ditching any of my moves. Who’s to say the one time I don’t try it, there isn’t someone with a shotgun on the other side of the door?

With a shake of my head, I pulled my spectacles case from my pocket and thumbed open the clasps, removing the largest screwdriver I carried. The screwdriver had an enlarged handle and blade, ideal for popping the locking cylinder out of the misjudged hole that had been drilled for it. I wedged the blade behind the exposed fascia of the lock and leaned all my weight onto it, using both hands, twisting the blade a shade to increase the pressure. Moments later, I felt the lock begin to ease outwards. I readjusted my grip, aiming for a smoother pressure, and readied my left hand to grab for the lock when it slipped free. I missed. The cylinder ripped away from the flimsy wood sooner than I’d anticipated, ricocheted off my grasping palm and bounced and rattled, making a seemingly endless tinkling noise on the tiled floor below.

I froze, the noise sounding a hundred times louder than I would have liked. Carefully, I backed off from the door and checked both ways along the corridor, straining my ears to pick up on any sounds. The darkness of the hallway seemed to thrum all around me. My heart skipped overtime and adrenaline flushed through my body. I looked again at the door and then lowered my eye to the hole where the locking cylinder had been. Beyond the rod of the deadbolt, I could see only darkness.

I waited a few moments more and, when nothing altered, I returned my screwdriver to my spectacles case and removed a pair of pliers. I used them to grip the shaft of the deadbolt and with a sharp tug and a grunt I yanked the bolt out of its socket in the doorframe. The door wobbled, then swung inwards, away from the toes of my training shoes. I tucked my pliers and my spectacles case away, wiped the sweat from my forehead with the sleeve of my jacket, tightened my fingers around my torch and finally stepped inside.

The first thing I noticed upon entering was the music. It was coming from the rear of the apartment: a regular, percussive beat – some kind of euro drum ’n bass. I wasn’t a fan but right then I’d never heard anything sweeter. The way I saw it, the music must have smothered the racket of the locking cylinder dropping onto the floor and there was a good chance it would mask any other slips I might make as I moved forwards.

There was a definite smell in the place. I couldn’t identify what it was to begin with but then I began to think it was probably the carpet. The carpet was sticking to my feet and it looked mildewed when I cast the torch beam down in an attempt to spot any low tables or units I might trip upon. As it happened, I saw only a sagging futon and a portable television balanced on a cardboard box. A pair of baseball trainers had been discarded on the floor in front of me, and a denim jacket thrown onto the stained futon cushion.

Ahead of me was a hallway corridor and somewhere at the end of that hallway was the source of the music. I readied myself, channelling the adrenaline in my bloodstream as best I could and squeezing my left hand into a fist around the dimpled shaft of the torch. I rolled my neck and gritted my teeth. I wasn’t the world’s greatest brawler but, based on how things had gone for me lately, I was more than willing to give it a try.

At that moment, I heard a muted scream. The scream was pitched above the noise of the music and it sounded as if it belonged to a woman. It came again – a pleading kind of yelp, as though the woman couldn’t open her mouth fully. Oh God, as though she was being asphyxiated.

To my shame, my first reaction was to eye the front door of the apartment. It was hanging open, inviting me to leave. Another shriek. I could sense desperation this time. All of a sudden, I realised I had to act. I could stop him; save a life. Maybe even clear my name.

I moved down the hallway, the music and the muffled whines growing ever louder. I paused for just an instant outside the door of the room the noises were coming from, aiming to get my mind and my body in some form of order. A greyish-blue light emanated from around the edges of the doorframe. It made sense, I thought. He’d need light to see what he was doing but he wouldn’t want it to feel too clinical. Another scream, feral-sounding and shockingly close. I raised my torch above my head, like a club, braced my entire body and kicked out at the door.

I bundled inside, then span around, poised to strike. There was a panicked, sudden yell, followed by an ungodly shriek. My senses grappled for order. I saw a blur of flesh and sudden movement, followed by a blinding light. Instinctively, I covered my eyes with my forearm, then blinked madly until I could just make out a splayed figure on the bed and a naked woman clasping a sheet to her body over by the far wall. The woman was very pale – her skin almost ghostly.

“Paige?” I said, over the noise of the music coming from the stereo in the corner of the room.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, not unreasonably.

I looked from Paige to Bruno. Bruno still hadn’t moved. He was lying flat on his back on the mattress, wearing only a pair of underpants. For a second, I couldn’t understand why he was just lying there, then I finally got it. He was handcuffed to the metal headboard.

“Kinky,” I said, and received a sneer.

If he was embarrassed, he didn’t show it. He did look anxious though, which was understandable given the circumstances. He cast a look towards Paige, as if expecting her to do something about me, and it was then I took matters in hand.

“Come on,” I said, “night’s over.”

I crossed the room and grabbed Paige by her bare forearm, intending to drag her from the room. She twisted her body in an awkward manner, fighting to loosen my grip. I came at her again and then, right when I thought I had her, she threw her legs out from under her body and plummeted to the floor, tucking herself into a ball inside the sheet. I looked down, wondering what to do next, then instinct took hold and I snatched her ankles and began dragging her towards the door.

“Hey!” she screamed, as the back of her head hit the floor and her eyes threatened to crawl out of their sockets. She kicked her legs and twisted her body. I didn’t care.

“Get the hell off me. What the hell are you doing? Stop, goddamn it.”

I didn’t stop. I kept on dragging her across the carpet, then out through the doorway into the hall, getting halfway around the corner before she reached for the varnished doorframe. She pulled against me and began to flail her legs more violently. I struggled for a while, imagining she’d relent, but I was underestimating her. Without warning, I dropped her legs, then lunged for her wrists. I prised her hands away from the doorframe, snagging her nails, then lifted her to her feet and manhandled her through into the lounge.

I gave her a final shove and she stumbled, falling flat on her face. She turned, clutching the sheet to her body.

“You said you didn’t know him,” I said, looking down over her.

Paige glared at me, violence in her large eyes.

“You do know he killed a woman, I suppose.”

Something flickered across her face. Confusion, maybe.

“Catherine Ames. Did you know her?” There was no kind of a response. “Christ, I’m not sure why I’m even asking, you’d only lie. Here, get dressed.”

I threw her the denim jacket and the baseball trainers. To begin with, she didn’t move. Maybe she thought I was bluffing.

“Where are the rest of your clothes?”

Paige looked at me for a long minute. Eventually, she jerked her chin towards the bedroom. Her face was colourless, her jaw set hard. I could see the sharp outline of her clavicle through her skin.

“Wait here,” I told her, and headed back down the hallway.

The stereo was still blaring when I entered the bedroom and I yanked the power cable out from the wall. The music ceased abruptly. I cast my eyes around the room, spying a skirt, a bra and a blouse towards the foot of the bed. There was also a pair of faded, striped knickers near Bruno’s feet. I decided she could go without, then briefly locked eyes with Bruno, who still hadn’t moved.

“Be back soon,” I said. “Don’t go anywhere.”